Greg punched the buzzer at 221 then shoved his hands into his pockets. Had he been asked, he would have told you this was the last place he had expected to be this morning. The last week had been bad, bad in a gut-wrenching manner. When he had heard, unofficially, what Sherlock had done, he'd left work and stayed drunk for the better part of a day. He had been furious. It felt like a betrayal - Sherlock had been getting better, growing as a person, making strides towards becoming a good man - and there was no one he could talk to about it since, officially, it hadn't even happened and John wasn't returning his calls.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door, looking tired and drawn. She didn't know what had happened, only that she was losing her surrogate son once more. "Oh, DI Lestrade." Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she tried to collect herself. "He's not here, but I suppose you already know that. Of course you do. I just..." Her hands twisted together, crumpling the handkerchief.
Impulsively, Greg wrapped his arms around the elderly woman in a comforting hug. "We've got him back, Mrs. Hudson and it's Greg to you. I've told you that a thousand times."
"Martha, then," she corrected. "He's back?" Her voice was hopeful. "Truly, dear?"
"Surprised you didn't know, actually. I heard he and John had quite the row yesterday."
Mrs. Hudson turned, taking a short step towards the stairs. "I was out. Are you sure he's here? It's been so quiet."
"Oh! Sorry, Mrs... Martha. John and Mary made him go home with them." He hated saying it, but Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock's history. "Apparently he's been using and they didn't want to leave him here until the flat had been searched." It hurt seeing the elderly woman's face fall in disappointment. He understood how she felt.
She brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh, dear. It was the wedding, wasn't it? John should never have married Mary, not that she's not a delightful girl."
Sighing, Lestrade shook his head. John's marriage was something he steadfastly refused to talk about with anyone, but he understood Mrs. Hudson's sentiment. "From what I've been told, he never really stopped." He ran a hand through his hair. "So, here I am, in an unofficial capacity, to search the flat and get some things for Sherlock."
Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly and patted his cheek. "Let me know if you need anything, dear."
"Sure thing, Mrs... Martha." Greg started up the stairs, reviewing his mental list of places to search. He decided to start with the obvious, not that Sherlock had likely been obvious, and check the loo.
He checked inside the cylinder that the toilet paper fit on, under the toilet bowl tank and under the main toilet tank. He even checked behind the wall plates on the light switch and electrical outlet as well as in the light fixture and air vent.
Not finding anything, he moved to the bedroom. There was nothing in the pillows, so he tore the bed apart and looked in the box springs. There, hidden in the centre, he found a box. Opening it, he found what was obviously Sherlock's kit. Greg's heart skipped a beat. He had secretly been hoping that John was wrong, though he had known it to be unlikely. He threw the hateful kit across the room and stood there for a moment, fuming.
When he had calmed down and resumed his search, he was even more thorough. It wasn't until he checked the cans of orange soda, that he found drugs. The cans were designed with a secret compartment and actually contained soda. Greg would personally like to punch the store owners that blithely sold such things under the guise of 'novelty items' - they were anything but. He also found another small stash hidden in the desk, in the inch of space to the left side of the drawer.
Greg sat in John's old chair, the drugs and kit on the floor before him. He had rarely felt so exhausted. He'd give himself a moment, then gather some of Sherlock's clothes and such to take to John's later. After that, he'd search the flat again. And again. He'd search it until he'd found every damn scrap of drugs the idiotic genius had hidden.